


Demonstration

by menel



Series: The Tactics Trilogy [2]
Category: Lord of the Rings (Movies), Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Sexual Humor, Word Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 20:59:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/614275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/menel/pseuds/menel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Faramir's viewing pleasure, Legolas and Éomer demonstrate how to bring down a mûmak.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Demonstration

**Author's Note:**

> **Setting:** Post-RotK, movie-verse only. Sequel to "Tactics." 
> 
> This fic was originally written as a New Year's Eve fic at the end of 2003 and originally published on my LiveJournal. 
> 
> Special thanks go to [Zasjah](http://zasjah.livejournal.com), my second pair of eyes, and [Elfscribe](http://elfscribe5.livejournal.com) for providing the singular form of 'mûmakil.'

Faramir unselfconsciously strode into the tent and sat down on Éomer’s bed that happened to provide him with the best view of his companions’ activities. 

“So,” the Steward said casually, “how _does_ one go about bringing down a mûmak?” 

Legolas arched an eyebrow at Faramir’s easy manner and then glanced at the half-naked man lying before him. 

“Given Faramir’s limited knowledge,” the Elf said to the Horse Lord. “I believe a demonstration is in order. What say you, Éomer?” 

“I concur,” Éomer agreed, trying to wriggle out of his constricting breeches that Legolas had uncomfortably left on. “To ensure that the Steward can follow our tactics, we must start from the beginning.” 

“Without doubt,” Legolas said, leaning over and grabbing hold of his partner’s breeches again. Then he looked at Faramir as he said, “Before taking on a mûmak one must be properly ‘dressed’ for the occasion.” 

With these words, the Elf unceremoniously pulled off the Horse Lord’s breeches, and Éomer let out a sigh of relief as his straining member was released. 

“It appears Éomer is already armed,” Faramir remarked. 

“Indeed,” Legolas said admiringly. “It is a kingly weapon.” 

“How should such a kingly weapon be used?” Faramir asked. 

“The Steward moves too quickly,” Legolas chastised. “Before one goes into battle, weapons must be properly oiled.” The Elf looked around the tent but nothing met with his satisfaction. 

“Perhaps you could use this?” Faramir suggested, producing a vial from an inner pocket of his velvet tunic and handing it to the Elf. 

Legolas smiled wickedly as he accepted the proffered vial and removed the stopper. The scent of lavender wafted out and met with the Elf’s approval. 

“It is a massage oil,” the Steward explained. “It heats the body quickly.” 

“The body is quite warm enough,” Éomer interrupted. 

“And makes an excellent lubricant,” the Steward couldn’t help but add. 

“Do you speak from experience?” Legolas asked mischievously, to which Faramir only smiled mysteriously in return. 

“As I was saying,” Legolas continued matter-of-factly, “a warrior must be prepared for battle.” He poured a healthy amount of the oil onto his hands and rubbed them together. “Not only should his weapons be oiled and sharpened, but his body must also be properly conditioned.” 

Legolas leaned over Éomer and placed his hands on the Man’s chest. Then he proceeded to rub the oil into Éomer’s already heated skin, massaging the Man’s firm upper body and then moving lower to Éomer’s equally firm abdomen, making sure not to touch him where he ached the most. Éomer was melting under the Elf’s touch and he closed his eyes to better enjoy the sensation of the Elf’s hands moving over him. _Conditioning, indeed_ , he thought with a smile. 

The Horse Lord let out a surprised gasp when he felt a warm mouth close over a peaked nipple, felt Legolas take the bud in between his teeth and gently nip it, causing him to writhe beneath the Elf’s ministrations. 

“Conditioning,” Legolas said in that same matter-of-fact tone, moving over to Éomer’s other nipple, “involves the stretching of limbs and the flexing of muscles.” To illustrate his point, the Elf dived down again and Éomer arched his back in response, letting out a long moan. 

“I see,” Faramir said, untying the laces of his own tunic. He did not need lavender massage oil to feel the temperature rapidly rising in the tent. 

“Once a warrior is ready,” Legolas said, moving ever lower down the Horse Lord’s body, “his weapons must be attended to.” 

Pausing for a moment to pour more oil on his hands, Legolas cast a fey glance at Faramir before he took Éomer in hand. Éomer lifted his hips to meet Legolas’ long smooth strokes, as the Steward of Gondor slipped off his own tunic and proceeded to untie the laces of the white shirt underneath. 

“Legolas,” Éomer said breathlessly, grasping the Elf’s right wrist. “I believe my weapon is thoroughly oiled.” 

“So it is,” the Elven Prince observed. “Are you ready to continue with the demonstration?” 

“Quite ready,” the Horse Lord assured the Elf, marveling at his own willpower not to ravish the Prince right then and there. 

They changed positions and Legolas elegantly stretched out on his hands and knees on the earthen floor while Éomer positioned himself behind the Elf. 

“Is this the first step in bringing down a mûmak?” Faramir asked, now sitting on the bed with his shirt seductively untied, revealing his firm torso and conscious of his own heavy breathing. 

“Before one can bring down a beast,” Éomer said, taking up his part in the demonstration, “one must learn how to ride it.” 

Kneeling behind the Elf, the Horse Lord grasped Legolas’ hips and said, “A mûmak, after all is first and foremost a beast of burden. As Legolas pointed out earlier, it can take a great weight.” To prove his point, Éomer pushed himself inside.

“Éomer,” Legolas gasped, jerking forward involuntarily and then leisurely pushing back, taking more of the Man inside him, “your burden is . . . great.” 

“All the better to ride you with, my dear,” Éomer whispered, leaning over the Elf and planting a kiss on his back. 

“Does riding a mûmak require any particular skill?” Faramir interrupted, his breath hitching on the last word. 

Éomer had begun to move, setting a steady pace that mirrored the great beast’s gait. “Riding a mûmak,” he said in between thrusts, “requires a great deal of force and control. Without those capabilities, it is easy to lose oneself in the heat of the moment.” 

“Direction,” Legolas breathed, moving in time to Éomer’s rhythm, “a rider must have a good sense of direction.” 

“Surely every rider has some idea of where they are going,” Faramir said, giving in and removing his shirt that had grown sticky with perspiration. 

“Some riders are yet to find their way,” Legolas contradicted before letting out a sharp cry of pure pleasure. 

“It appears Éomer has found the right path,” the Steward noted. 

“Éomer is an accomplished rider,” the Elf panted, as the Horse Lord changed the angle of his thrusts and quickened his pace. 

“That he is,” Faramir agreed, a stray hand slipping into his own constricting breeches, “but thus far you have only shown me how to ride a mûmak, not how to take one down. Does a mûmak have no weakness?” 

In answer to the Steward’s question, the Horse Lord wrapped an arm around the Elf’s waist and pulled Legolas up so that they were both sitting upright. Legolas threw his head over Éomer’s shoulder, lost in his own ecstasy. 

“A mûmak’s weakness is here,” Éomer illustrated, his free hand roaming over the Elf’s chest. “The underside of the beast is naturally sheltered from the harshest elements.” 

Through half-lidded eyes Legolas lifted an arm and beckoned for Faramir to join them. It was just the invitation the Steward had been waiting for and he rose and went to the pair, kneeling before them. With his outstretched arm, Legolas grasped one of Faramir’s hands and placed it over his rapidly beating heart, the Elf’s rapture seemingly transferring itself into the Man. Faramir’s hand began to move of its own accord, mapping the smooth planes of the Elf’s chest. 

“Soft,” he whispered, “and yet so firm.” 

Faramir bent down and placed a kiss on the Elf’s collarbone that sent a shiver of delight through Legolas’s already pleasure-wracked body. Faramir’s kisses moved lower until he took one of the Elf’s nipples in his mouth and rolled it around his tongue. 

“I would have thought,” the Steward said as he released the swollen nipple, “that due to the sheer size of the beast, it would take nothing short of a host of arrows to bring it down, assuming that were even possible.” 

“How perceptive is our Steward,” Legolas said, reaching out and cupping Faramir’s chin. “You are correct. You must strike a mûmak in the head. That is its ultimate weakness. A carefully placed blow would undo the beast.” 

Heeding the Elf’s advice, Faramir dived down and engulfed the Elf’s aching shaft. Legolas was near his peak and all it took were a few quick strokes of the Man’s tongue to send him over the edge. Éomer soon followed, spilling himself inside the Elf, both arms now wrapped around Legolas’ waist, pulling the Elf firmly against his body. Still breathing heavily, the Horse Lord placed a kiss on Legolas’ shoulder and then rested his chin there as he watched the Steward patiently lick the Elf clean, removing any sign of their demonstration. When Faramir was done, he lifted his head only to be swept by the Elven Prince into a searing kiss. Breathless by the time the kiss ended, Faramir looked into Legolas’s laughing blue eyes. 

“You learn quickly, Steward of Gondor,” Legolas said appreciatively.

“I was merely following your fine example,” the Steward replied. 

“That is all good and well,” Legolas continued, the seduction slipping into his voice again, fingers trailing down the man’s bare chest, “but I do believe that you mentioned shooting down a Nazgûl before. Would you care to share with us how you achieved this feat?” 

Faramir cocked his head to the right and glanced at Éomer whose head still rested on Legolas’ shoulder. There was a wicked gleam in the Horse Lord’s eye that the Steward knew was reflected in his own. 

“After your thorough demonstration of taking down a mûmak,” Faramir began, “I do not know if my tactics can match your high standard.” 

“I would not worry about that,” a familiar voice, one that all three participants instantly recognized, said from the entrance of the tent. “I am sure Legolas will find some way to assist you.” 

The two men were dumbfounded as the King of Gondor leisurely stepped into the tent, hands on his hips as he appraised the situation: clothes strewn on the floor and the bed, a naked man, a naked Elf, a half-naked Steward, the heady smell of sex mixed with . . . what was that? Lavender? 

“Really, Legolas,” Aragorn said. “Must you share your battle tactics with everyone?” 

“Faramir and Éomer are not ‘everyone,’” Legolas retorted. “They are both fine warriors and exceptional tacticians in their own right. Furthermore, I was not aware,” the Prince could not help but add with a sly smile, long limbs wrapping around the Steward in a sensual embrace, “that you wished my services only for yourself.” 

 

**~The End~**


End file.
